A Summer of Discontent

He glanced to one side, and saw that the transept was still in its chaotic state of disrepair, with the rope hanging between two stools to warn people to stay out. It seemed to Bartholomew that the ground was more littered with smashed flagstones and broken masonry than ever, and he noted that the angel, which had clung precariously to the beam high on the roof above, was now a pile of painted rubble on the floor. Only the angel’s eyes were identifiable, gazing sightlessly upward as though admonishing the builders for giving her a niche that was not sound. The scaffolding that clung to the wall looked more unstable than the building it was supposed to support, and Bartholomew was surprised that the whole lot had not already crashed to the ground.

He was about to leave through the west door, when he saw two familiar figures walking slowly towards him. Tysilia and de Lisle were strolling arm in arm through the cathedral that was the centre of his See. Bartholomew had seldom seen a greater look of contentment on the haughty features of the Bishop, although Tysilia seemed bored with her father’s company. Ralph was behind them, dogging their footsteps like a faithful, if reluctant, hound. Quickly Bartholomew moved behind one of the thick Norman columns. He did not want to meet Tysilia and have another conversation that revolved around Brother Michael’s physical virtues in front of the Bishop. He listened carefully to their approaching footsteps, ready to edge further around the column if they came towards him.

‘What is this?’ he heard Tysilia ask, as she passed the ruinous transept.

‘A broken angel,’ came de Lisle’s voice, tenderly patient. ‘She must have fallen from the roof. This entire section is not as strong as the rest of the cathedral. One day it will tumble to the ground.’

Tysilia clapped her hands in childlike delight. ‘Can I come to see it? I have never seen a church fall down.’

‘I imagine few people have,’ said de Lisle, reaching out to touch her hair in a rare sign of paternal affection. ‘But I hope it will not happen for a while, because then the monks will insist on rebuilding it immediately, and they should finish the parish church of Holy Cross first.’

‘But it will be much more fun to build a big church than a little one,’ said Tysilia. ‘I like large things. Like Brother Michael.’

‘Michael?’ asked de Lisle, somewhat startled. ‘Do you mean my agent?’

‘I do not know what he does in his spare time,’ said Tysilia warmly. ‘But he is a charming man and he has a fine physique.’

‘Are we talking about the same fellow?’ asked de Lisle, his voice wary. ‘You mean Brother Michael from Michaelhouse in Cambridge?’

‘That is the one,’ said Tysilia dreamily. ‘He is a perfect specimen.’

‘I have always considered him rather fat, personally,’ said de Lisle. ‘But he has served me well in the past, although he is not doing a very good job as regards these murders.’

‘Poor William,’ said Tysilia. ‘He was my brother, you know?’

Bartholomew saw de Lisle stare at her. ‘He was not,’ he said eventually. ‘And I can assure you that I have a very good reason to know.’

‘Well, you are wrong,’ said Tysilia merrily. ‘He said we were brother and sister because we both have black hair and dark eyes. It is a family resplendence, he said.’

‘Resemblance,’ said de Lisle fondly. ‘But William did not have black hair — he had that puffy grey stuff that looked like a big piece of fungus, and eyes that were more pale than dark.’

‘That is what I told him,’ said Tysilia. ‘But he told me that hair and eyes change colour when a person ages.’

‘He was lying,’ said de Lisle. ‘But you and I both have dark eyes.’

‘You cannot be my brother,’ said Tysilia, pushing him playfully. ‘You are far too old. In fact, you are so old that I would not even consider you as a bedfellow, and I do not usually mind a little maternity.’

‘Maturity,’ corrected de Lisle. ‘They are not words you should muddle, my dearest one.’

He broke away from Tysilia when one of his clerks hurried towards him, holding some piece of parchment that had to be signed. De Lisle was not the kind of man who signed documents without reading them first, and Tysilia grew restless with the enforced wait. While the clerk and Ralph chatted, and de Lisle read his parchment, she wandered away to look at the damaged transept. Before anyone noticed what she was doing, she had stepped across the rope barrier and was poking around among the smashed statues on the floor.

With a sigh of annoyance, Bartholomew abandoned his hiding place and walked towards her. Much as he found her dim wits irritating, he could not stand by and see her in danger. He called her name, ordering her to leave the transept and move towards him. At the sound of his voice, de Lisle turned in alarm.

‘Tysilia!’ he cried, dropping his parchment and racing towards her. ‘The physician is right. Come out of there at once!’